


Coming to Fruition

by gardnerhill



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Crack, Fruit, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando Bloom is a fabulous fruit basket of straightness. Viggo has proof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming to Fruition

**Author's Note:**

> : Inspired by [this LJ thread](http://melle.livejournal.com/132617.html) \- and especially [this post](http://melle.livejournal.com/132617.html?thread=1069065#t1069065) \- which describes Orlando Bloom as "a fabulous fruit basket of straightness."
> 
> The author wishes to thank the hard-working men and women who toil in the fields of the Imperial, Inyo, Humboldt, San Joaquin, Kern, Fresno,Sonoma, and Kings Counties of California, without whose industry this story would not be possible: _Gracias, señores y señoras, para todo sus trabajo duro. Si Se Puede!_

Viggo picked up the basket full of fruit that had been on the table and turned it this way and that, never taking his eyes off it.

 

Orlando watched Viggo, amused at his intense scrutiny. "Are you going to start painting still lifes now?"

 

"No." Viggo didn't take his eyes off the fruit and the bowl of woven straw. He could be dwelling on the fruit's shapes or their colours, the weight the basket made in his hands, the origin of the fruit names or their appelations in other tongues, or just contemplating a snack.

 

Consigning the older man to the strange world in which he dwelt most of the time, Orlando headed into the suite's main bathroom for a shower. Good, all his favourites were in evidence (as well as Viggo's much smaller collection of preferred toiletries). This was a very nice perk of being a Star.

 

And he was being a Star tonight, not an actor. What was this thing for – AIDS research, global warming? Something he believed in, anyway. He was to be seen with Kate this evening, another smile-and-wave affair; they'd been too long out of the headlines, he'd been informed. Networking; glad-handing; schmoozing.

 

She was in this hotel too, somewhere; they'd been seen going in together by a few of the right people. Now they were on separate floors and would not see each other before the do. He wouldn't want to barge in on her and her lover either; their relationship was career hype, but they could respect each other's actual lives. Both profited; Kate's association with him had increased her name recognition for her work, and she was the red cape that diverted studio execs and moviegoers into believing that Orlando Bloom was a red-blooded guy who went for girls, and therefore was acceptable leading-man material.

 

A red-blooded guy who went for girls, but wasn't ready to settle down and have kids yet. Christ, he could bloody kill Robin for that one. Should have seen it coming, though; everyone was hopping on the baby bandwagon. (How convenient, Viggo had said flatly in response to an NYT article Robin had given Orlando, all these recent studies proving that women _like_ to quit their jobs, stay in the kitchen and make babies, nothing political in it at all.) Robin had browbeat him about it: People loved celebrity babies; it would give him that sexy-cozy Tom Hanks family-man vibe; Kate would have a perfect escape hatch when modeling tanked. His not wanting to have kids was irrelevant, that's what nannies were for.

 

He'd wanted so badly to say that he already had a son – Henry Mortensen – just to watch Robin pop a blood vessel at the thought that he might blurt that in an interview...

 

Claws in, elf boy.

 

Having a publicist was standard procedure, all part of the sedan-chair ride (and often just as much of a pain in the arse). Robin knew her job and her milieu; he owed her for much of his recent success. But this was one thing on which he would not bend to her will. It would be an ugly day in New Zealand before he'd perpetrate the emotional clusterfuck of his own questionable paternal lineage on someone else.

 

He turned off the blow-dryer and set it down with a thump. Screw it. He was working tonight, and he planned to enjoy himself, goddammit. See some co-stars. Maybe even run into someone who'd want to cast him in a film where he didn't pick up a weapon. He could dream. In the meantime, he had a whole afternoon of his real life ahead, and a row of Levi 501 buttons to undo with his teeth.

 

Towel low around his hips, just so; Vig wouldn't resist the urge to pounce and unwrap his present, it turned him on harder than if he just sauntered back naked. Artists and their draped semi-nudes, really... Out the bathroom door. "Ready or not, here you c–"

 

Orlando stared.

 

The straw basket sat on the end table, upside down, empty. Its contents – bananas, a pineapple, a bunch of fat red grapes, a cantaloupe – lay on the headboard. So did a couple of hand-towels and a small knife. The bed had been stripped of everything but the fitted sheet and a couple of the pillows.

 

The hell? Are we going to feed each other?

 

Viggo turned toward his lover. An apple was in his hand. The look he gave Orlando froze the younger man in his tracks, and all thoughts of babies flew from his mind – along with all the other thoughts. His cock fought for an escape route through the thick towel.

 

"What's..." Orlando cleared his throat and tried again, louder. "What's wrong with the fruit basket?"

 

Viggo looked Orlando up and down; the appraisal of the raw material. "Too utilitarian." He held the Red Delicious out at arm's length, and the gaze became an order.

 

Orlando saw only the great red knob at the end of the long appendage.

 

The towel dropped, as did he. Forward on his knees, mouth open.

 

There. Smooth and taut against his teeth, the crackle of the crisp skin under his teeth, the sweet crunch of the white flesh, juice bubbling from the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin. His hands covered the warm rough one wrapped around the apple, the fingers wet and sweet and sticky; he lapped at them as the juice dripped onto his chest and ran down him in a single trail.

 

One finger tapped his lips in admonishment. Orlando started, then pulled away a little and continued chewing his mouthful of apple, mouth pinched to hide his grin. _Don't fuck with your mouth full, dear_. He wondered where the hotel had gotten hold of such sweet, crispy Red Delicious apples in L.A., they all tasted like shit out here–

 

When he'd swallowed his mouthful, the apple returned, turned just so in the big hand so that another shiny red surface skin met his lips. This was familiar; kneel and take supplication from the hand you loved...

 

Bite by bite, the sweet fruit disappeared. Orlando's cheeks and chin were sticky, and juice spots dotted down his chest and belly. Hungry for more, he licked the hand that held the core.The hand released the apple's remains and turned, open, fingers spread. Orlando washed the hand with his tongue; he whimpered when the fingers pulled out of his mouth when he tried sucking them, but their trembling was a triumph he savoured.

A thumb stroked across Orlando's lips; the index finger below it pulled away and pointed to the bed. The lazy, ruttish stare from above backed up the silent command.

 

Orlando climbed onto the bed and crouched, head on his folded arms, knees spread, arse in the air. Just a touch of a wriggle, and he was rewarded with a heavy hard exhalation from his top. This was the power of the bottom; his great joy was to use his perfect submission to make this strange, highly self-aware and composed man completely lose his shit with lust.

 

Soft, stretching, wet sounds. Condom and lube. Oh yes. Oh, there –

 

Ah! This was – cool. Oddly pointed, oddly angled. And not, well, circular, more like a stout, hexagonal – oh dear god...

 

The banana curved up inside him, perfectly aimed. Orlando yelped as the fruit touched him inwardly. It withdrew and thrust forward again, and again. He shuddered as he was stretched by the fruit, stretched and held. Held. Held.

 

Viggo stood before him, still fully clothed; still composed. That damned banana was still in his arse. Without a word the older man turned his back on his lover and strolled into the bathroom. When the shower started, Orlando really began to whimper.

 

_So that's all I bloody am to you, a banana warmer, is that it?_

 

Turned out that uncontrolled giggling didn't help matters any – jostled the banana parked just so.

 

Orlando glared at the closed door he faced by necessity given his current position. Viggo took too damned long in the shower. (A tenth of the time he himself spent in that room, the tiny sane fragment of Orlando's brain loyally piped up, but the impatient cock outshouted it.)

 

Viggo finally emerged, damp and naked, and walked right past Orlando to the headboard. A thump or two, a thud onto the bed. And the silver flash of a knife, entirely too close to the Bloom family jewels for comfort. Orlando's split-second of primal terror fled with the slick slicing wet sounds that followed. _Idiot._

 

A new fragrance approached him, as did a chunk of solid orange flesh, dripping in the fingers that held it before Orlando's mouth. He sucked the lump of cantaloupe into his mouth and chewed, and the hand caressed his cheek before leaving. Mm, perfect – A thrust made him yelp in startlement with his mouth full. at the banana's reminder. Another slice or two, another curled bit of melon for him, another caress of his cheek or hair while he ate. He often stroked Sidi the same way while giving him a treat; the similarity warmed him.

 

The cantaloupe was sweet and succulent, a perfect firm-silky texture, juicy as a good melon should be. He did hope he wasn't expected to finish the whole bloody thing, or for that matter everything in the basket –

 

Orlando cried out at the cool, wet touch on him – a thumb and fingers around the base of his cock, around him, then released. Then more slicing, and a few more curls of cantaloupe fed to him. He'd managed to get some finger-licking in and around the cantaloupe-feeding; it wouldn't hurt to remind Viggo what his tongue could do, even if there was a banana parked in pride of place and...

 

And a cool, lush, firm-silky moist opening teased at his cock.

 

Oh fucking Christ, that's why Vig had had his sticky-wet fingers around his cock – he'd been measuring the size of the aperture he needed to carve –

 

The sweet, juicy orifice swallowed him.With a heave of his hips and a yell, Orlando deflowered the cantaloupe.

 

So cold and wet! It was like jumping into a cold swimming pool – right down to acclimating quickly to the temperature. Not as insane as jumping into a frozen lake after sweating in a boiling room, another invention of Danish madmen...

 

The flesh surrounding his cock quickly warmed to his blood temperature. Viggo held the surrogate, moved it onto him as if it was attached to an eager woman (he supposed, having nothing to compare it to, but Vig would know), leaned over to nibble his shoulder, reached back to thrust the tropical dildo deeper into him

 

Lush, sweet flesh held him tightly, sucked at his cock as he pulled back, swallowed as he thrust, vacuum and friction seizing him in madness. Christ, they sold these things in _grocery stores_?

 

Stretched and filled, mad with fucking, Orlando fucked and was fucked amid the fragrance of sweet fresh fruit until lightning hit the base of his spine and he arched and howled.

 

When sanity returned, a feeble thread of a thing, it was long before any strength came back; he twitched, curled on his side, still taken and taking, sticky and sweet. _Come take your pictures_ now _, fuckers – Orlando Bloom with a banana up his arse and a cantaloupe stuck on his dick should be good for a Page 3 spread and a five-figure bonus..._

 

Big hands stroked him as he shivered in the aftermath, thumbs brushing passion-tears away; kisses speckled his belly and throat, chin and mouth, nose and eyes, soothing him as nature freed him from the abused melon. Orlando's bitter thoughts wafted away with the tender ministrations; there were no camera-bearing vultures here, only his big beautiful eagle bearing him back to earth. And, finally, taking that wretched banana out, letting him flop onto his back still trying to breathe deeply with not a bone left in his body.

 

You know what to do now, my lovely Ranger, throw my legs over your shoulders and shove it in. That's it, Vig, take my thighs in your hands and spread them, tilt me up and–!

 

And...

 

Orlando opened his eyes in time to see and feel a fat red grape tumble-roll its way across his stomach and straight toward his face; he squawked in startlement just as the projectile bounced off his chin.

 

Viggo didn't look pleased; and considering that he had his lover tipped at an inviting angle, arse up once again and parked over Viggo's thighs, legs firmly wrapped around the older man's hips, it didn't make sense. Not until Viggo set another grape at Orlando's groin, and tilted the younger man's hips with his hands. This time the grape rolled neatly into Orlando's navel, and Viggo smiled.

 

He was going to fucking kill Viggo.

 

Viggo bent over his makeshift _pachinko_ machine and plucked the grape from its nest with his lips without touching Orlando; he sat back, chewing, and picked another grape off the cluster.

 

No, it was bad luck to kill crazy people. "Let me know when you're done," Orlando said, and closed his eyes.

 

He felt another grape set in place and sent tumbling, oh bad luck missed the navel again – and into the hollow between his collar bones, where it stayed. Heat, and the tickle of Viggo's damp hair at his nose and chin, hot damp breath on his throat, and – the grape was gone, again plucked away from its target without a touch to the site.

 

Orlando opened one eye. Then the other. On the other hand...

 

The next grape landed in his navel again. Orlando promptly bounced it up and back into play before Viggo could act, and with a few more tilts and shimmies managed to land the grape in the valley between his pectorals, rocking gently between his nipples. Heh, he hadn't had that valley last year, but since he was to be shirtless in the most recent batch of films he'd prepared accordingly. He arched one eyebrow at his amused lover – rescue your ball from _this_ sand trap, Mr. Mortensen.

 

...Fuck. He was _good._ He'd felt Viggo's breath on his chest, nothing more, and then the valley was deserted.

 

The next one was a gutter-grape, off his ribs; but Orlando managed to pin the next one between his clavicle and chin; Viggo wouldn't be able to retrieve it without a necking session. Viggo's response was to pull another grape from the bunch with his lips and bend over Orlando's mouth, offering the new one just a half-inch out of reach. Couldn't reach it, and its promise of a snogging session, without releasing the ball already in play. Orlando laughed, and Youth and Spirit acceded to Age and Treachery. Good grapes.

 

The game shifted into taking grapes away from each other's mouths. Orlando, postcoital and languid, opted for the use of his tongue and nose to nuzzle his opponent into giving in to his wishes; Viggo, still unsated, sucked the grapes out of Orlando’s mouth with all the tenderness of an industrial vac. The game changed again when Viggo went from Elfball Wizard to Minature Eggroller, using his nose and chin to coax a grape along Orlando's torso, then up his throat and over chin to tip the grape into the waiting mouth – ah _Christ_ , that was good, those brushes of chin and cheek like a cat's tongue on his belly, nipples, throat (Viggo had showered but not shaved), setting off more sparks and teasing his sleepy cock back to life. And from there...

 

There were a lot of grapes on that bunch, and an amazing number of games that could be played with small balls by two naked men in a sporting mood.

 

When Orlando caught a grape fired out of Viggo's mouth in his teeth, he proudly displayed his trophy, raising his fists in triumph at the golf-clap his lover bestowed upon his feat – even as a tiny part of his brain plaintively asked when they would get back to the sex. _I think we're having it_ , said the part of him that had gravitated to the strange artist in the first place. So follow his lead, as always. If he'd rather use his erect cock to bat grapes than to plough his hot boyfriend, well... Viggo was Viggo. Not a tame lion at all.

 

But getting less tame by the minute.

 

Viggo knocked one underhanded pitch completely off the bed with the same accuracy he'd used in deflecting the knife Lawrence had flung at him (with his sword instead of his dick, though that _would_ have been an interesting director's choice). But something else flew off – a drop. Viggo's breath came hard and fast between locked teeth; the cords stood out in his neck. His cock shone.

 

Ah. So the demeanor had been a front. He was at tipping point, all but ready to commit sexual assault. He'd seen that cock-sheen before, that meant Viggo was so hard he could probably use it to bat the knife away at this stage and oh God that mental image finished the job for Orlando, hard as a rock again. Viggo's fist clenched on the denuded branch and the few remaining grapes. And the wild look burned in his eyes – the same look he wore when paint covered both hands and feet and some brilliant, bewildering canvas lay on the floor, finished beneath him.

 

Viggo flung the cluster away. One finger pointed at Orlando, jerked down

 

Instant comprehension, instant obedience. Orlando dropped, crouched on hands and knees, head toward the kneeling man. His eyes went no higher than Viggo's thighs; the man was so hard Orlando couldn't see his cock. Things were going to happen, and right now Viggo didn't give a fuck that Orlando needed to sit down later tonight.

 

The knees moved, pivoted slightly; the upper body was turning around. Back, and they shuffled closer to his crouched body, so close Orlando could smell Viggo's cock as well as feel its heat eddying onto his shoulder.

 

A squishing sound, and cool liquid dribbled between his shoulder blades, traveled down his back to drip down his sides. More fruit? Christ, the guy was going to be–

 

A fragrant, pungent smell, and small cool bits of...pineapple, this was the bloody pineapple!...landed here and there upon him. Viggo must have cut it up while prepping the cantaloupe; the sound, he must be squeezing big chunks of the juicy flesh in his fists over his lover. Bigger pieces and chunks of the fruit scattered over Orlando, plopping and sliding down his sides, tumbling into the small of his back, dripping into his hair, sliding down his limbs. He'd gotten a little apple juice down his chest, some cantaloupe on his cock, a smushed grape here and there – but this was a pineapple bath, a downpour of fruit and juice and stickiness.

 

Then the close heat beside him bowed over him, and a hot wet mouth swiped through the crushed fruit in the small of his back.

Oh jesus yes.

 

Orlando dug his hands into the mattress right through the sheet, shaking. His balls tightened and his cock rapped at his navel. A grin closer to snarl than smile stretched his face.

 

Another hot wet swipe, up his arm. He could feel the hot pants of breath on his skin. All it would take was one tiny, little push of a button. And he knew where all the buttons were buried.

 

Orlando dropped his head, exposing the back of his neck and the warmed chunks of pineapple nestled between his shoulder blades. A growl. " _Spis mig._ "

 

He heard the utter stillness and then the snarl, a split-second before arms legs and teeth seized him all at once. The fruit-basket gave a shriek of his own as Viggo gnawed his neck and scapulae, devouring fruit and servitor both, ravening on him. His neck was Viggo's favorite grazing ground and after this Orlando would look like he'd been gang-raped by vampires – smartest thing he ever did, making a scarf part of his look –

 

Christ, eaten alive. Down the back, the sides (he shrieked again as the teeth scraped his ribs), shoulders, arse. Still Orlando held his ground as Hurricane Viggo blew through and over and around and into him. A taste of pineapple when he finally got Viggo's cock in his mouth, and he felt the wet heat descend on his back once again – Vig licking and biting his back while he did his best to suck the cock off of him. The growls became higher-pitched, barks and then cries and then shrieks. He had him now, by the basket thank you, and he wasn't letting go till it was over, he blew his top so very, very well –

 

_"Mein schoen Hundin_ ," Viggo sobbed, " _mein F- Frucht-Kiepe, mein–_ "

 

Both Viggo's palms came straight down on Orlando's arse at the same time that he dove to the very bottom.

 

That final sound was nothing human.

 

That, and that alone, sent Orlando over with a yell; as he always did, he followed where Viggo led.

 

***

 

"You make a fabulous fruit basket," Viggo murmured, his back against the headboard. Orlando felt the voice rumble against his tongue as he ran it up Viggo's chest in long lazy sweeps, pleased at the tremble he'd put in the big hand stroking his back. Pineapple, grape...

 

He looked up at his lover. Oh god, Viggo was eating the banana, _that_ banana. "Christ, Vig!"

 

"I had a condom on it. Fruit that can be peeled is safe to eat.” Viggo took another bite. “It's still warm," he added with his mouth full.

 

Orlando's head fell back down. Bad luck to kill crazy people, bad luck... He reacted with a quick flash of distaste when his leg found a wet spot on the sheets, but it turned into snickering when the wet spot turned out to be a mashed grape. The snicker turned into a deep breath and then a yawn; he pillowed his head on his lover's chest.

 

A considerable time later, while they fed each other the remaining slices of pineapple as a post-nap pick-me-up, Orlando's watch cheeped. He pulled his fingers out of Viggo's mouth and picked up the timepiece to shut off the alarm; he had to start getting ready. "Back to the big lie."

 

Viggo kissed the top of his head and squeezed him. "Welcome to acting, _piña mio_."

 

"Arsehole."

 

Some day, Orlando vowed. Some day while they could both still enjoy it – a day when he had attained respect for his skill and versatility and not just his leading-man looks – he could come out, keep working, and stop hiding. By then, with any luck, Kate would be holed up in Australia with her immaculately-conceived litter of sprogs and Robin would be hard at work on her newest acquisition, troweling over his gay past to sell him to the public.

 

For now, he had both Kate and Robin to contend with. And he smelled like a tropical combo plate.

 

"Vig, if they serve fruit salad at this thing I won't b-be able to stand up f-from the table–"

 

Laughter made both helpless for a period.

 

"You'll be with Kate," Viggo said when he got his breath back. "If anything untoward happens, people will make an erroneous conclusion."

 

They always did. Moviegoers thought he was straight, and that he and Kate were romantically involved. Robin thought she had his fertility in her grip. Kate thought he’d give in. Viggo thought he'd do anything his publicist told him to do.

 

Orlando groped for the discarded bowl of woven straw and parked it on his head upside-down, striking a pose. "That I am a _fabulous_ fruit basket of straightness?"

 

Viggo laughed so hard that snot came out.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Orlando growls "Eat me" in Danish to Viggo.  
> Viggo calls Orlando "My beautiful bitch, my fruit-basket" in German.  
> Viggo calls Orlando "My pineapple" in Spanish.


End file.
